Tied Sure
by Pyrasaur
Summary: She's been quiet lately: if only Phoenix could speak. PhoenixMia, implied DiegoMia, written for the PW Kink Meme.


"We're friends, aren't we, Phoenix?"

He looked up from the paper-covered desktop; Mia had perched on the cover letters he needed, her hair liquid-glossy in the sun and her head bowed.

"It's ..." And she glanced sidelong but not _at_ him, thought and clouds, "I hope I'm not just your boss."

Phoenix didn't pretend to understand the sticky, tangled things hearts were full of, and had never been much good at talking about them and god help him, this was a _female question_. He loosened his tie's stranglehold.

"N-No," he said, "Of course not."

Silence. He scrabbled for words good enough.

"I-I mean, you've been ... You've done so much more for me than that."

She murmured agreement. Friends, of course; the relief hurt.

"All right." Mia smiled -- still distant -- and turned, back behind her hair's curtain. "I think I just needed to hear that. Coffee?"

"Uh, sure."

It was barely out of Phoenix's mouth before she slipped away.

His stapler crunched a rhythm -- his hand began cramping a rhythm, too -- and coffee spread rich into the air. Hadn't Mia been brewing coffee an awful lot lately? Phoenix paused, and winced at the unsightly bend in his latest staple, and breathed in and thought.

_This one smells familiar,_ came Mia's memory-voice, _I hadn't thought I'd ever come across it again..._

She had been quieter since coffee took over the office. Funny -- it smelled like any other brand to Phoenix.

The minor sounds stood distinct: Mia's heels on the laminate, muted click of a mug on Phoenix's desktop, wheels' grumble as she brought another chair over. Ordinary enough, familiar and visceral.

"Is black all right," Mia said.

But he hadn't expected her so close, knees brushing as he turned. He had also never taken coffee black before in his life, and Phoenix eyed the steaming, wicked brew and, yes, it was fine.

"I've been thinking lately," and she laced her fingers around her own white mug, gazed into her own dark depths, "About ... someone special."

Someone special, maybe him, Phoenix's wild hopes whispered, he knew far better but--

Mia twisted her fingertips together on ceramic, and smiled wan. "He's ... gone. It's been a long time now. But thinking can be like that, can't it?"

Phoenix hadn't thought thinking was that way for her: Mia was sure and brilliant, Mia smiled calm and challenged the world. But she fell quiet then, and steam rose fragrant between them, and of all the times to choke--

"Mia..." His throat dried, his voice dust.

She laid a hand on his forearm. Phoenix looked at it -- long, fair, glossy-perfect nails -- and up at Mia, to the look she wore when she knew, she just _knew_.

"I was ... hoping you could help me with it. Are you doing anything after work?"

He never was: sink-scrubbing didn't count.

"No ... Your place?"

The Chief smiled warmer. "I'd like that."

The minutes oozed past and the files fell to dull order. Silver keys and evening-gold marked the day's end.

"Are you sure I'm not," and Mia paused oddly, passing Phoenix, considering the enormously heavy lobby door he held, "Imposing at all?"

She couldn't impose if she tried. Phoenix forgot what he answered Mia, just grew surer that talking might help, listening might be enough. Coffee clung inside his mouth -- too bitter.

Mia's car was small and black and faithful-worn -- not unlike her purse, just with less useful clutter in it. And the engine purred to itself, and Phoenix watched her machine-motions the way he always watched drivers -- everything had its patterns to learn, he supposed.

"Years," Mia answered, "Three years, and four months."

Phoenix straightened, and a pang of cookie-jar guilt pulled his fingers away from the power locks. "What ...?"

She paused, and worried her lip between her teeth. Facing stiffly forward, grip resettling on the wheel, world flying silently by her.

"Since he's been gone. I-I hadn't noticed how long it's been, until the coffee ..."

Phoenix watched nothing at all form on Mia's face, the stone he usually took for disappointment. This wasn't usual.

"Your ... special someone?" he tried.

"D-Do you--"

Pausing, Mia swiped her bangs aside.

"A person can change you, everything about your life and who you are. Maybe it's one day you can't stop remembering, or their advice or just how they smile at you, but you're never the same, you become someone stronger and you never _forget_, you know what I mean, Nick?"

He knew.

The gravel and concrete of her parking space arrived, and Mia cut the engine with a snap-twist of the keys. Quiet writhed between them now, Phoenix's gaze drawn to the snapping of Mia's movements because she was a woman determined again, her heels ringing sharp on the walkway and the unreadable stone on her face. And Phoenix followed her -- as always -- and some sureness he couldn't name lurked behind his thoughts, underscored with his shoes slipping off and the lone toll of the front door closing.

"I don't think I can do this, Phoenix."

No, not such a tiny voice, she didn't deserve to sound that way and it hurt to look up from his shoelaces, see Mia facing the door still, burying her face in her palms. He stood; he rallied everything he had and drew closer. It was worn carpet under his socks and the someone-else's-home smell, the shadows and the burn of her presence.

"Mia, i-it's--"

"No," and her voice welled like tears, she turned and gripped his lapels but the wall hard at his back never came, "It's not-- I-I wanted to sleep with you tonight, it's just been so long--"

She could have whatever she wanted -- Phoenix knew the sureness's name now, and he ached.

"--And I-I thought having someone close might ... I miss him so much, it never goes away but you don't deserve to be _used_ like that, Nick," Mia was choking, laying her head on his chest as her grip went lax, "W-Why did I ever think I could do that to you?"

He must have been amazing, this man long gone. And Mia thought Phoenix could come anywhere near it -- that meant he could. Lifting leaden arms, Phoenix hoped for luck and courage and a chance to repay her, one more miracle. He held Mia, and with a thin keen, she began to cry.

He hated each sound, each heave of her shoulders and the uselessness of stroking her hair. He hardly remembered walking the shadow-veiled hall to her bedroom -- only that he was there in rumpled bedding and so was she, and the heavy suit jackets vanished and Mia curled to him, soft and warm through cotton. An agonizing lifetime passed before it faded to hiccups, and to calm breath. Night fell in deep drifts.

"Thank you," she breathed.

She sighed, and it lingered. Maybe Phoenix's fingertips, tracing idly over her skin between camisole straps, lent some small comfort -- the shape of her shoulder blades hung in his mind's eye.

"I just needed that out of my system, I suppose," she murmured.

Mia knew. She always knew, she picked tangles apart the way Phoenix never could and he spoke so that maybe the words would come.

"I-I'd ... uhh..."

"Hmm?"

She stirred, and laid her arm higher across his chest. Phoenix swallowed, thick-stirring.

"I could ..." His touch following her backbone -- lower, only a fraction. "I-If you wanted me to."

Distant streetlight limned Mia as she propped upright, white gold in her hair and a glow on her skin. He wished the light were enough to see her face properly, the wise gleam forming in her eyes: he wouldn't be the same without it.

"That wouldn't be fair to you, Nick."

It was a question, gentle as her palm slipping behind his neck. If she knew his answer -- and Mia always did -- why was she bothering to ask?

"I don't want to see you hurting," he said, never quiet enough in the dark, "That doesn't have anything to do with how I feel."

A lie, a damn lie and even Phoenix knew it; Mia breathed his name like it was new. She formed soft to him as she leaned closer, and her touch laced into his hair, and she kissed him soft and deep. It had been a while and his hands shook, and the tear-salt faded from her lips. Unfair, yes, but his heart hurt so sweetly he could forget the ghosts, forget breathing, everything but her.

"Thank you," Mia said, a grateful choke while her leg slipped between his, while she smiled against his mouth, "Just what I need."

Someday, he could say it back.


End file.
